


Dinner's on me, Boys!

by XO_Echo (Zaeli_Echo)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Betting, Drunkenness, Sass, Target Practice, The Roadhouse, The colt strikes fear into the hearts of men, The roadhouse didn't burn, Tumblr Prompt, just for fun, stuff like that, with money on the line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 07:18:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaeli_Echo/pseuds/XO_Echo





	Dinner's on me, Boys!

Nine-thirty at night. The roadhouse. Sam and Dean are talking to Jo and Ellen about a shapeshifter case they need some backup on. Ash is sleeping on the pool table, snoring quietly. You are nursing a rum and coke while the brothers give the Harvelles the rundown. Honestly, you couldn’t be more bored. It had been weeks since the last high-intensity hunt, and you were itching for something to do. Something to keep your mind busy. You pick at the sleeve of your flannel absentmindedly, swirling your drink around in its glass. The heavy plod of boots announced somebody’s approach. Not Dean’s. Not Sam’s. Not either of the girls. You didn’t recognize this tread.

Honestly, you rival Cas in your ability to recognize somebody upon their approach. Dean thinks it was creepy. Sam thinks it was cool. Cas - as always - is indifferent. Kevin is eight kinds of envious.

Dean has a steady, relatively scuffing tread. He always announces himself once he’s within like three feet. He also rolls from his heels to his toe with each step, making sort of a scuff-pause pattern as he walks.

Sam is quieter, placing his feet as he steps, making sure he doesn’t drag his toes or his heels as he picks up or sets down each foot. The thing is, he’s tall, and thus, you can feel his presence before you can hear him.

Cas is almost silent, but he has this _smell_. Like the air in the moment before lightning strikes. He smells like ozone and mint, and his scent precedes him. Also, his trenchcoat rustles, announcing his presence.

This guy has a heavy, noisy tread, with a small stutter that suggests he’s had one too many whiskey tumblers. He also smells like the underside of a trashcan that’s been sitting in a rancid puddle for three weeks in ninety-degree heat.

You wrinkle your nose in distaste.

    “Hey there, pretty thing. Wh- _hic_ -at are you doing here so late?” He slurred, his breath washing over you, just as rancid as the rest of him.

You turn around, a look of mild disinterest on your face.

    “Same thing you are. Looking for a stiff drink after a tough hunt.” You decide that’s only a half-lie.

His eyebrows raise in an impressive display of coordination, regarding his obvious inebriation.

    “You’re too dainty to be a hunter, little lady. Look at those little hands. I dou’ you coul’ even hold a knife properly.” He giggles, breathing in your face again as you try not to gag. “You’d be too scared to break a nail.”

    “Wanna put your money where your mouth is, perp?” You snarl, mouth twisting in disgust. This guy has crossed _way_ too many lines.

    “Oh, shit. Sammy, look. Poor bastard can’t help but poke the hornet’s nest.” You hear Dean chuckle to his brother as the drunk slams a fistful of cash on the table.

    “Five hundred says you can’t even hit the target out back.” He growls, handing you the butt of a crappy pistol.

    “Oh, I don’t shoot with pawn-shop steals.” You pull the Colt out of your waistband and empty the specialized bullets, loading a few normal leads into the cylinder.

The guy’s buddies have wandered over to see what the fuss is about, and near have to push their eyes back into their skulls at the sight of the infamous revolver.

    “Dude. You realize that if she has that gun, then she’s in cahoots with the _Winchesters_ , right?” One of the drunk’s cohorts tries to tug the guy away.

     “Who? I don’t care who she’s sleeping with. I want my money.” He gestures at the back door. You shrug and swagger out the door, swaying your hips teasingly. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice you pocket the money casually.

The majority of the inhabitants of the Roadhouse follow you outside, having had their attention drawn by the guy’s drunken antics. You situate yourself a good hundred feet from the target, stance wide and shoulders steady.

    “Alright, three shots. If she hits the bull's-eye more than once, you give her the money.” Ellen calls, standing between you and the drunk as you hold the Colt at eye-level, aiming.

_Bang_

Silence

_Bang_

Dean and Sam are struggling to hold back their laughter.

_Bang_

The crowd is silent for a moment, before a cacophony of cheering breaks out. Money is tossed about, high-fives are given, and one very inebriated man says something along the lines of: “There’s only one hole. She only hit the target once!” and pointing at the target.

He’s not lying. There is only one hole. That was widened by three bullets. Right dead-center of the bull’s-eye.

    “Alright, Lloyd. Give [insert your name here] her money.” Ellen says, very obviously trying to fight off a smile

The drunk man - Lloyd - just stands there, looking more infuriated and purple-faced by the second.

    “Lloyd. You made a bet. You know it’s cowardly to break off a bet only after you lose it.” You remind him, voice so condescending it could be mistaken for sweet.

    “Why- You- How Da-” Lloyd splutters indignantly, staggering about in a drunken rage. He lurches towards you, throwing a heavy fist in your general direction.

You just watch as it sails past your face, missing you by at least a foot.

    “You missed.” You point out, cocking your head at him in a gesture Dean laughs at as he recognizes your confused-Cas impersonation. That laughter is cut short by a hiss and an appreciative whistle as you lightning-quick shot out a punch that connected squarely between Lloyd’s glazed-over eyes. He crumpled to the ground, out cold.

More silence.

More cheers, and more bet money is exchanged.

    “Hey, miss showoff. We got what we need. Let’s go.”

You smirk at Sam as he pads up.

    “But I need to collect my bet money.”

    “Here,” Ellen says from behind you, holding out a wad of bills. “This is five-hundred. It was in his pocket.” She smiles that knowing half-smirk. “You three tell Cas that he’s not to be a stranger here, kay?” A quick pat on the shoulder.

You smile sweetly at her in return.

    “You betcha’, Ms. Harvelle.” You chime, your face a picture of innocence.

Ellen rolls her eyes, patting your shoulder again. You wave to Jo as the brothers usher you out the door.

The ride back to the bunker is relatively quiet, the would-be-silence only interrupted by the rock music playing at low volume out of Baby’s speakers.

When the trio finally pads into the bunker, Cas is waiting.

    “[Insert your name here], why are you smirking like that?” He asked immediately as you sit on the railing and slide down, hopping off and jogging a few steps to minimize the momentum.

Dean and Sam glance at you as you do a cheerful back-handspring, a devious little smile on your face.

    “You know that five hundred bucks that Ellen handed me?” You ask, still smirking.

Sam’s face slowly morphs into a similarly evil grin. Dean still looks confused.

    “Well, I had already pocketed the money he had slammed on the bar when he challenged me.” You let your teeth show as your grin stretches even wider. “Boys, I just got us a thousand bucks. Dinner’s on me!” You laugh.

Sam joins you immediately.

Dean looks a little bewildered for a moment, before breaking into a fit of rolling chuckles.

Cas just smirks, one corner of his mouth turning up just a little bit: the Cas equivalent of rolling around on the floor laughing.

The bunker echoes with the sound of laughter.


End file.
